


supposed to be

by lyricalprose (fairylights), weezly14



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005), Legally Blonde - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, F/M, Legally Blonde, fic tennis
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-19
Updated: 2014-05-19
Packaged: 2018-01-25 17:09:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1656074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairylights/pseuds/lyricalprose, https://archiveofourown.org/users/weezly14/pseuds/weezly14
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She wants <i>serious.</i> He's going to give it to her. (That's the plan, anyways).</p>
            </blockquote>





	supposed to be

**Author's Note:**

> In which [weezly14](http://archiveofourown.org/users/weezly14/pseuds/weezly14) and I try our hands at fic tennis.
> 
> This is an AU, loosely based on Legally Blonde: The Musical. Co-written in alternating sections, starting with me and switching back and forth thereafter.

_Baby, my future’s all planned  
I’ve got some dreams to make true  
I thought that you’d understand  
It’s time to get serious_  
  
\-----  
  
For the last three months or so, there has been a ring in his sock drawer.  
  
He didn’t actually _buy_ it. It was his grandmother’s, or so he’s been told. It’s a weighty old piece of just-so-slightly-tarnished silver and two-carat diamond, supposedly passed down from generation to generation. He can’t really be certain about that, since he’s never met anyone from most of the generations in question, but it’s the engagement ring he has and it’s the one he’s sure she’ll love — even if the silver needs a bit of cleaning, and the velvet box it’s been kept in is a bit worn around the edges.  
  
Just before he’d left the house this evening, he’d taken it out of the drawer and put it in his pocket. It’s still sitting there now, an unobtrusive, almost comfortable sort of weight in the breast pocket of his very favorite suit.  
  
Comfortable. Comfortable, like the idea of his future — _their_ future — that’s always hovered, indistinct and fuzzy-edged, on the periphery of his mind. It’s just logical, after all these years of being together, of _fitting_ together, that they’d eventually come to a point where she’s wearing his grandmother’s ring. It makes sense that dating would turn into marriage would turn into children, that they’d keep going on together, just like they’ve always done. He can’t quite recall ever wanting anything different.  
  
He’s always thought she’d wanted that, too. The way she’s been _looking_ at him lately, the hints — or what he thought had been hints — the emphasis she’d put on tonight’s dinner—  
  
Clearly, he’d been wrong.  
  
Reinette’s hair, so often the brightest thing in any room, looks rather dull just now, muted in the dim of the restaurant. They don’t believe in _light_ here, apparently. That’d seemed rather romantic not five minutes ago.  
  
Now it just makes him feel claustrophobic, pinned in by the oppressive combination of trite romantic trappings and soft candlelight. The brightest point in his field of vision is a flicker of light just to the right of Reinette’s left eye, where the glow of the candle on the table strikes against her diamond earring. He’s been staring at it for a good ten seconds now — because, for all that it’s really not terribly interesting, the scientifically logical projection of refracted light makes so much more sense than the words that have just come out of Reinette’s mouth.  
  
“John?”  
  
She sounds concerned, almost _tender_ , and it’s a fraying thread of hope snaps his attention away from the point of light and back to her face.  
  
“I’m sorry,” he says, thickly. “What did you just say?”  
  
Reinette gives him that _look._ It’s one he’s never liked — the one that, with the arch of an eyebrow and a quirk of the lips, simultaneously pats him condescendingly on the shoulder and says _darling, you haven’t caught up yet?_  
  
“I _said,_ ” she repeats, prim and matter-of-fact, as though they’re discussing something utterly mundane, like a train schedule or an exam question, “that I thought we should break up.”  
  
There isn’t enough air in the restaurant, all of a sudden. He tears his eyes away from Reinette’s, which are all of a sudden far too blue, too beautiful, too full of pity. Instead, he focuses on the candle in the middle of their table, merrily flickering away in its red blown-glass container, doing its small part to help suck all the oxygen out of the dim little dining room.  
  
Some reckless impulse has him fishing in his breast pocket for the well-worn velvet box. It’s still warm, from being pressed close to his chest, and his fingers curl tight around it as he slams it — a bit too hard, maybe, judging by the way the noise makes the couple at the next table over jump — onto the tabletop.  
  
“But I—” He angles for the right words, picking up and discarding half a dozen different cutting remarks before deflating, the hand still clutched around the ring box the only source of tension in his body. “I was going to _propose._ ”  
  
Reinette looks a little bit sad, then — though not, he realizes with a flare of anger that’s surprising in its savagery, the least bit sorry.  
  
She does, however, at least make the pretense of remorse. “I’m sorry,” she says quietly, in a voice that’s still far too composed to convey any real regret. “I thought you’d understand. It’s just — uni’s almost over, you know, and this — what we have — this won’t work for me, anymore. I need someone—”  
  
 _Taller? Richer? Blonder? Just…else?_  
  
“—someone _serious._ ”  
  
\-----  
  
“John?”  
  
“Go away.”  
  
John curls up further under his blankets, eyes focused on the television screen without processing anything.  
  
Next there’s a pounding on the door. That’d be George.  
  
“You’ve been moping for a week, get up!” he shouts, gruff and Northern.  
  
“If you’re feeling up to it, he means to say; we know you’ve just had a terrible shock and we’re here for you, John, we are, so–”  
  
“Open this bloody door before I knock it down!”  
  
“What are you doing?” Troy hisses. He probably thinks lowering his voice will make John unable to hear him. But it’s a frat house; the walls (and doors) aren’t that thick.  
  
“What’s it look like I’m doing? I’m stopping his wallowing.”  
  
“He’s just had his heart broken.”  
  
“Oh, and you’d know all about how that feels, wouldn’t you?”  
  
“Don’t start.”  
  
He clicks off the TV and gets to his feet. They’re clearly not going away on their own, and he’ll have to face them eventually anyway. He wraps his blanket around himself, not caring that he’s been wearing these pajamas for the past four days and hasn’t showered in four. He’s in mourning.  
  
“He’s not gonna feel better lying about, looking at old photos–”  
  
(And he is not looking at old photos, for the record.)  
  
“Tough love isn’t going to help, either!”  
  
“I can hear you, you know,” John says as he opens the door. There’s Troy, looking frazzled in that ridiculous bow tie he’s taken to wearing, and George, arms crossed in front of him. He must’ve just got back from class; he’s still wearing his jacket, and he almost never wears his jacket indoors. And Troy is still in his shoes, which he never wears in the house. John is almost touched that they came to see him straight away, as soon as they arrived home.  
  
Then he remembers why they came to see him.  
  
“How are you feeling?”  
  
“Like I just had my heart broken.”  
  
“You’ve not gone to class, have you?” George asks.  
  
John narrows his eyes.  
  
“I’m in mourning.”  
  
“She wasn’t that great.”  
  
“George!”  
  
“What? She wasn’t.”  
  
“Well, apparently I’m not that great either, so, if you’ll excuse me–”  
  
“John–” Troy says, grabbing his arm before he can disappear again. “We’re worried about you.”  
  
“I’ll be all right.”  
  
“Yeah, you’re doing a great job of convincing us of that,” George says.  
  
“You know what she said? She said she wants someone serious.”  
  
“You’re serious!” Troy exclaims.  
  
“Not serious enough, apparently.”  
  
“Why would you want to be with someone who thinks you’re less than? Get over her, find someone better. That’s my advice.”  
  
“That’s terrible advice, George, this is why you have no one–what you need, John, is to find something, some–is there a contest, maybe?”  
  
“Serious man of the year, maybe?”  
  
“Shut up George, if you’re not going to help–”  
  
“I am trying to help, you’re both barmy if you think–”  
  
“Shut up! Both of you!” John shouts. He runs a hand through his hair. He appreciates them, he does. They’re his brothers–his fraternity brothers, at least. There are others, but Troy and George–Eleven and Nine as they’re also known–are the ones he’s closest to.  
  
(It’s a small fraternity. The sort that lives in the most run down frat house at the end of frat row with so few members that it’s not terribly uncommon to go several years without a new recruit. Their nicknames are their numbers–John is Ten because he’s the tenth person to join Theta Sigma.)  
  
(Reinette always used to tease him about his involvement, though she seemed to admire it in a certain way, too. Regardless, George and Troy are family, practically, and maybe he’d had illusions of Reinette joining that family, but, well.)  
  
“I appreciate your concern,” he begins. Troy looks like he’s about to interrupt so he continues. “But, there’s nothing to do. Truly. Reinette has made up her mind, and soon we’ll–and maybe she’s right, we’re going such different places, I’m–well, I’m not exactly sure where I’m going, but she–she’s going to law school. At Cambridge. That’s–”  
  
“Impressive,” Troy says. George nods reluctantly.  
  
“Exactly. She’s going to–to bigger and brighter things, she needs someone who can be there for her, someone–someone–”  
  
Oh, but for a genius he is stupid sometimes.  
  
“I know what I have to do.”  
  
“Forget about her and move on?” George supplies.  
  
“No. I need to go law school.”  
  
\-----  
  
"This is mad. _You’re_ mad.”  
  
"That bow tie’s mad," John mumbles darkly, into page seven of _The Rule of Law._ His shoulders have been slumping a little more with every word. Somewhere around _judicial misinterpretation_ , his forehead dropped straight onto the page, pulled down by the discouraging weight of unfamiliar words and archaic concepts.  
  
He doesn’t have to see Troy’s face to know that it’s probably arranged into a deeply wounded expression.  
  
"What did your advisor say when you asked her about it?"  
  
"Said it was a brilliant idea. Smashing. Fabulous."  
  
(Actually, she’d said “you want to do _what?_ ”, rather more shrilly than he’d thought was warranted).  
  
John slowly levers himself up, peeling the thin pages of the book away from his skin. Troy is giving him a disbelieving look, chin jutted out and arms crossed across his chest. “You don’t have to look so surprised. I’ve always got excellent marks, you know that.”  
  
“Yes, but I’m not sure you’ve ever taken any classes that might be in any way helpful when it comes to studying—” Troy picks up the topmost volume in John’s stack of recently-acquired law books, grimacing as he reads out the title. “— _Statutory Torts,_ whatever the bloody hell that is.”  
  
John doesn’t know what that is. He’s determined to find out, though.  
  
"It’s not gonna be as simple as pickin’ up some books, you know," George’s gravelly voice chimes in, unhelpfully. He’s leaning up against the doorframe of the kitchen, examining the precarious stack of law books John’s piled up on the table. "There’ll be exams to take, and you’ll need references, and if by some miracle you _do_ get in, you’ll have to pack up and move—”  
  
"I’ve already been through all this with my advisor, you know."  
  
George cocks an eyebrow at him, as if to say “ _and?_ ”  
  
"It’s worth it," he says, briskly.  
  
George makes a disgruntled, harrumphing sort of noise. “You mean _she’s_ worth it.”  
  
"Is that so hard to believe?" He can’t help the snap in his voice, the volume and heat that comes so suddenly he can see Troy — though not George — jump. "Is that just too _bloody_ difficult for you even imagine, doing something ridiculous for love?”  
  
There is a moment of silence, uncomfortable and heavy in the small space of their cramped kitchen, before George snaps right back.  
  
"Is that what you’re plannin’ on doing, then? Personally pleading your case to the Cambridge admissions committee?" George pushes himself off the doorframe and minces into the kitchen, raising his arms and pitching his voice high in what John assumes is meant to be a mocking impression of _him._ “Please admit me, sir, on account a’ true love? You gonna do a little song and dance to go with it, maybe?”  
  
"George—" Troy interrupts him, voice stern and scolding, but John’s already pushed his chair back and blown past George, set on getting the hell out of the kitchen.  
  
George’s voice stops him again. “Get back here,” he says, just as John’s got a foot into the hallway.  
  
John’s sure he looks like a fish as he turns around, gaping open-mouthed at George and his gall — until he realizes that the other man is pointing towards the table, at his stack of law books.  
  
"Thought you wanted your girl back," George says mildly. "Giving up awful quick, aren’t you?"  
  
John takes in a few deep breaths, shaking out the anger that’s still fresh enough to heat his face and the back of his neck. “So you’re _helping_ me now, is that it?”  
  
"No parties," George says, as if the instruction is answer enough. "No more harin’ off to god knows where at the weekend, just for the hell of it."  
  
He’d pretty much figured that out already, but repeating the idea still doesn’t make him any happier about it — he can’t help the grimace that passes over his face before he nods, grimly.  
  
 _Serious._ He can manage serious, just for a little while.  
  
\-----  
  
It takes several tries to get the score he needs (countless practice exams at the kitchen table, George telling him a bit more gleefully than necessary that he’d not measured up yet) but when he finally manages it it all becomes real, somehow, or more real.  
  
This isn’t just another of his plans, this isn’t just another dream he’s gone chasing after haphazardly, only to give up a few months later to pursue something else.  
  
He’s _worked_ for this. Committed in a way he hasn’t been to most things (but has always been to _her_ ), and so when he sees that number, the official score report–it’s real. He’s doing this. He’s applying to _law school._  
  
Troy jokingly asked if he knew the Pope or the Prime Minister or someone comparable, to ask for a recommendation. John waved him off but now he wishes he _did_ know someone important and official because the longer he stares at his application the more his stomach sinks because it’s _Cambridge_ and it’s him, and his ridiculously long and disjointed transcript and his excellent exam score and an essay he’s yet to write because he’s not sure answering “Why do you want to study law” with “To win back the love of my life” is going to get him very far.  
  
He’s in the kitchen hunched over his laptop, surrounded by law books from the library, the blinking cursor on the blank page mocking him.  
  
“Can’t sleep?”  
  
George ambles in, fixes himself a cup of tea. John doesn’t respond. Starts typing. Stops. Deletes. George sits down across from him.  
  
“This was supposed to be the easy part.”  
  
“None of this is the easy part.”  
  
George shrugs. Takes a sip of his tea.  
  
“I’m doing this for her.”  
  
No reaction.  
  
“For _us_ , really.”  
  
Still no reaction.  
  
“And it’s not–it’s not typical, I’m aware, but that doesn’t–why shouldn’t they let me in? I’m smart. I’ve driven. I could be a damn good lawyer, probably, if I wanted to.”  
  
“Do you?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Do you actually want to become a lawyer, or just make Reinette think you do?”  
  
He opens his mouth to respond but finds he doesn’t have anything to say. He closes his mouth again. George smiles at him (a touch too patronizing for John’s liking) before standing.  
  
“Think about it,” he says before he exits.  
  
It’s all John can think about for the rest of the night.  
  
–-  
  
He thinks about sending off a quick text to her, after he’s submitted the application. Even writes it, several times over. They all sit in his drafts.  
  
He’s afraid of what her reaction might be, afraid she won’t care, or tell him to go away, or that she doesn’t love him anymore and never really did and he–  
  
He doesn’t say anything. To her or anyone.  
  
–-  
  
 _“Hello, I’m calling for a John Smith on behalf of the Faculty of Law at the University of Cambridge. You have been selected or an interview. Please call back at this number so we can make travel arrangements. Thanks, have a good weekend.”_  
  
\-----  
  
There is an interview, at some point. If he’s honest, though, he doesn’t recall most of it.  
  
He recalls the drive up the M11 to Cambridge, made in the rickety old Vauxhall with a sticky gearshift and held-on-with-tape mirrors that he’d borrowed from George. He recalls sitting in a waiting room that smelled vaguely of dust and old paper, listening to one side of an elderly receptionist’s antagonistic phone conversation with someone named Jeanette. He recalls that, eventually, he’d been asked into an office that somehow smelled even more powerfully of dust, and that there’d been a panel of interviewers in suits — _proper_ suits, pressed and stiff, in dark blacks and greys that’d made him second-guess his own brown one.  
  
But he’s not really sure that he could recount what it was he _said._  
  
John knows that he’d _talked._ If there’s one thing he’s always been brilliant at, it’s talking. They’d asked questions, and he’d answered, words pouring out of him like water from a faucet, and they’d nodded and _hmmm_ ed and raised their eyebrows rather a lot more than he thinks is probably normal for these sorts of things, but he’d not broken out into spontaneous declarations of love or been asked to leave by security, so he’s at least reasonably certain that he didn’t make a complete arse of himself.  
  
When it was all said and done, apparently he’d convinced someone, because two months later there’d been a heavy off-white envelope in the post with his name and the Cambridge logo printed on, full of acceptance letters and new student materials and enough forms and figures to make his head spin.  
  
And now he’s sitting here, on a wide grassy lawn at Cambridge, with a lap full of even more pieces of paper that have to be filled out or turned in or gone over, listening to some insufferable prat named Adam natter on about his A-levels.  
  
There are four others in this little ‘get-to-know-you’ group of first-year law students that he’s been press-ganged into. There’s Adam (whom he has already begun referring to as ‘the prat’ and ‘the idiot’ in his head, interchangeably), and two brunette women — one young, statuesque and extremely posh-looking, the other small and a bit older, with her hair cut in a bob.  
  
Then there’s their — _leader? proctor? mentor?_ There’d been some esoteric academic term that the blonde with the surprisingly rough accent had used at the beginning, when she’d introduced herself, but John’s already forgotten it, along with her name.  
  
"That’s lovely, Adam," the woman in question says briskly, cutting the prat off mid-boast. "Thanks for sharing. If we could have you introduce yourself next, please, Miss—" She pauses, looking down at the clipboard in her lap, as if searching for the other woman’s name.  
  
"Christina," the posh-looking brunette says loftily. "And it’s _Lady_ Christina, actually, if you don’t mind.”  
  
The blonde makes a face that seems to indicate that she does, in fact, mind, but she still nods pleasantly all throughout Christina’s smug introductions, as well as those of the next woman in the circle — a wordy, highly opinionated woman named Sarah Jane who apparently has a background in journalism.  
  
The polite, strained introductions don’t hold the group together for any longer than the length of the formalities, and they all disperse not long after Sarah Jane finishes expounding on her most recent journalistic exploits.  
  
The woman with the clipboard — John feels like a heel for not remembering her name — is packing up to leave as well, but he crouches down next to her as she’s gathering up her things, awkwardly extending a hand in greeting.  
  
"Hi," he says, a little bit stilted, but deliberately bright. "John. Nice to meet you."  
  
"Rose," the other woman says gamely, as if he’s not introducing himself to her for the second time in ten minutes. "Rose Tyler. I did actually know your name, though, y’know. Since I was listening to you all introduce yourselves just now."  
  
The words are a bit chastising, but her expression isn’t. Her smile’s warm and teasing, all good humor and camaraderie. “Sorry,” he says sheepishly, tugging absentmindedly at an ear while they both stand up from the grass. “It’s just — could you tell me where the Criminal Law lectures will be?”  
  
"Straight through there," the woman — _Rose_ — says obligingly, pointing towards the nearest door back into the main hall. “Make three rights, then a left, and it’ll be the second door on your right.”  
  
\-----  
  
He sees her the moment he walks in, but if she’s noticed his presence–well, it’s a large lecture hall, he tells himself. And they’ve not seen or talked to each other in months (and he ignores the twinge that comes with that realization — _months_ — he’d been so focused on getting _into_ her bloody school that he hadn’t noticed how much time had passed) so it’s not _that_ strange that she wouldn’t sense him from across the room (he’s always been much more in tune with her on that front, eyes always finding her across a room, feeling her enter or exit a space they both inhabited). It’s fine.  
He’s debating with himself–to go up to her or not, play it cool or–  
  
“John?”  
  
She sees him, though, and he smiles brightly (he’s not seen her in months, remember?) and the look on her face–he smiles wider, heart hammering in his chest.  
  
“Reinette,” he says, and it comes out breathier that he’d planned but he doesn’t care because she’s coming toward him he may even get a hug, _the plan is working_ , but she stops just short of him.  
  
“What are you doing here?”  
  
“This is Criminal Law 110, isn’t it? With–” he pulls out the folder Rose had given him, roots through until he finds the paper he’s looking for– “Professor Davros, right?”  
  
“Yes, but why are _you_ here?” she asks, crossing her arms in front of herself, and decidedly less excited than he’d hoped. He doesn’t let his smile slip.  
  
“I go here now,” he tells her enthusiastically (as though his enthusiasm might transfer to her).  
  
“What?”  
  
Confusion? He’ll take it over disappointment.  
  
“Yeah. I decided to give law school a go.”  
  
He cringes inwardly. _Serious_ , he’s trying to convince her he’s _serious_ , and acting on impulse–doing things on a whim–that’s a very unserious thing to do. She raises an eyebrow as if in agreement.  
  
“You just up and decided to apply to law school–and you got in?”  
  
He shrugs, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s not so hard, is it?”  
None of this is going according to plan, and for perhaps the first time since he hatched this scheme–plan–life change–it occurs to him that he might’ve done something incredibly stupid.  
Reinette shakes her head and laughs, and the tension in the air seems to disappear. His heart lifts–she’s _smiling_ at him, and it’s been _months_ , and he’s in _love_ with her, and–  
  
“Oh, John. You’ll never change, will you?”  
  
Wait.  
  
“What are you talking about?” he asks, because he _is_ changing, see how much he’s changing? He’s at _law school_ for heaven’s sake, he has a degree in _physics_ and he’s here for her–what is her definition of change if not this?  
  
But then some idiot waltzes up and puts his arm around Reinette and he’s about to tell the bloke to back off, this isn’t a _bar_ , you can’t just go up to people and put your arms around them, but then the man addresses her.  
  
“Honey, who’s this?”  
  
 _Honey?_ Is she going to stand for this?  
  
“Jack, this is my ex-boyfriend, John,” she says, and something in his boils, or maybe freezes, or maybe both–there’s a strange sort of chemical reaction fizzling in his blood, but she’s not done talking. “John, this is my boyfriend, Jack.”  
  
Or maybe something in him breaks.  
  
Jack–and what a stupid, American name–sticks out his hand for a shake, and John wants to ignore it but that seems childish and not at all in line with the image he’s trying to create–the _man_ he’s trying to become, for her–so he takes it and smiles (he hopes they can’t see how forced it is, can’t tell how erratic his heart beat is).  
  
“Good to meet you,” Jack says with a grin. (Stupid and perfect and American.)  
  
“You too,” he lies.  
  
“Jack’s father is the American ambassador, our parents have been good friends since we were teenagers,” Reinette explains. John finds he really doesn’t care how they met or who Jack’s father is (though it’s clear he comes from money, was probably educated at one of those American boarding schools, Exeter or whatever, probably went to Harvard or something equally pretentious), but he can’t see a way out of this conversation.  
  
“How nice,” he says, still smiling. His face hurts, his heart hurts, he wants to run away.  
  
“So, John–”  
  
The door opens suddenly and violently. 


End file.
